EssomenicA puddle we haven't yet splashed, though we assume it is there for our foot to mistakenly fall into - there was one behind us, and it must follow that there will be one in front of us. The prior bumbling muddles, however, may influence those which are forthcoming in such a way that their prescribed pattern seems more random and disconnected than mere fate can accommodate. The muddy splash nine years ago may cause a small dip or depression to appear some fifteen years out there, in the abyss, and perhaps some droplets from an even more distant past puddle may provide some of the wetness in the would-be of tomorrows. When the foot eventually finds it, years later, there will be only a subtle recall, a shiver of recognition that this whole ordeal seems mighty familiar, that the puddle's ripple brings to mind some vague memory. Yes, not quite a future but more of a reiteration or recombination of the past as it has passed.
Feeling of dread when, as a child, a scraped knee spilled some blood on the sidewalk coupled twenty years later when, as an adult, the same fumbling person misses a curb and falls in much the same way (arms flailing, jaw clenching, ground unforgiving). This time, though, the two similar events seem to provide a pair of book-end which call attention to the tiny creeping span of life that dangles between. One informs the other, the latter informs the former, and a sticky residue builds on the fogged glass. Oh person, committing the same dumb offenses throughout life in so many vivid variants. The dread dissipates this second time though, the pain dissolves, and familiarity precipitates over the entire experience coating it in a glossy shine of relief. It is not the difference between being a child, who is prone to tears at any injury, and simply being an adult who is more resolute in the face of an accident. It is not a matter of thicker skin or more composed emotions. We've done this before: one puddle same as the next. It is all senses in conjuction which provides this shock of apperception. It is the sight of concrete dabbled with dark red, it is the sound of a stupid rush of blood to the face which screams "embarassment", and it is the new feeling of cold upon this layer of exposed skin. Kant divided it into two subsections even; the transcendental and the empirical.
It is a mirror, not a window, and grows dim as you approach. If there was such a way to project reflections, it would be essomenic.
